


we've got some work to do now

by halfabreath



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, Polyamory, Scooby-Doo-Esque AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: Three times Whiskey and Tango said ‘I love you’ without actually saying it + One time Ford said it back.





	we've got some work to do now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [story_telling_sage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_telling_sage/gifts).



> Written for @story_telling_sage / @omgtranspoindexter for Polya EpiFest who wanted WTF with in a Scooby-Doo AU. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> "Ways to Say I love You" are from this post: http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you

**1\. Tango**

Life on the road is - well. Ford’s not sure how to describe it most of the time. It’s strange, living and working out of a ramshackle van with a questionable paint job as she solves mysteries across the country with her two favorite people in the world. Ford loves the work, loves how Whiskey’s eyes light up when he’s just a few steps away from putting the pieces of a case together, how Tango will trail after a suspect asking question after question, most of which she never would have thought to ask herself. 

Living in a van, though? Ford doesn’t love that part so much. She particularly enjoy showering at rest stops or at terrible motels. She’s sick and tired of eating at the same six fast food joints. She’s so fucking done with inflating a mattress in the back of the Mystery Machine when they can’t find a place to sleep (even if curling up next to Tango because he _insists_ on sleeping in the middle because he’s always cold is...nice. More than nice, if she’s being honest.) because she always wakes up with a crick in her back and no way to wash her face. 

The driving, surprisingly, isn’t the worst part. Ford doesn’t usually mind the hours spent behind the wheel but now, only thirty minutes into a six hour driving shift with the next hundred and fifty miles on winding roads through the mountains? Ford wishes she was anywhere else. She grits her teeth as she guides the van through a narrow tunnel, hands curled around the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. She can’t even enjoy the soft music tumbling from the sound system because she’s so focused on not accidentally driving them off a literal cliff. 

“Hey,” Tango says from the passenger’s seat. She can’t spare a glance his way but she does hum in acknowledgement. “Pull over, let me drive a while.” He reaches across the front seat and places a hand on her shoulder, strong fingers digging into her tense muscles. 

“I just started my shift,” She says, firmly shaking her head. Tango squeezes her shoulder. 

“I know, but I want to drive. Please?” He asks, like she’d be doing _him_ a favor, and relief pools in her stomach. She nods and pulls over the first chance she gets, guiding the van onto a small scenic lookout. 

It takes her a long moment to relax enough to uncurl her fingers from the wheel and by the time she manages it Tango has opened her door. He reaches over her lap to unbuckle her seatbelt. 

“Are you sure?” She asks, guilt creeping in. Tango’s not supposed to drive for another five and a half hours, and she should at least be able to commit to the driving schedule and route she decided on. Tango just leans in and presses a soft kiss against her cheek. 

“I’m sure,” He says warmly, lips brushing against her skin. He smells like the laundry detergent pods they all share, the van, the coconut lip balm he likes. “You have to navigate, and sing along to the radio.” Tango wraps his arm around her waist, turning her in her seat, and for once, it’s not a question. 

**2\. Whiskey**

It’s their third haunted castle of the month, and Ford is _seriously_ over rich white guys faking their own death and then haunting their wives. At least, they’re 68% sure that’s what’s happening here because it’s what happened in the past two castles. 

“Why are dark castle hallways creepier than dark mansion hallways?” Tango’s five steps ahead of Ford and Whiskey, holding the old lantern they’d found in the grand hall aloft. The flame flickers, shadows dancing over Tango’s wide eyes as he turns to walk backwards through the hall while he waits for an answer to his question. “Does the human eye prefer wood tones? Or is it because castles are colder? Ooh, or because there are usually portraits in mansions and not in castles, or - ?” 

“Probably because it’s colder and quieter,” Whiskey says, voice even and calm as it always is. “Turn around, Tango, I don’t want you to trip.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the map as he speaks. Ford’s not sure how he’s juggling Tango’s questions, directing them through a secret passageway that’s technically not supposed to exist, and stepping over the large cracks and loose stones that litter the floor. 

Tango beams at him, grateful for an answer, and Ford swears the flame from the lantern grows brighter for just a moment before he turns back around. She gives herself a little shake; now’s not the time for her to get bogged down in romance (she’s not sure why solving crime with her partners makes her weak in the knees, but as far as _things_ go it could be worse. She could have a _thing_ for athletic men covered in flour, like Bitty). The lantern casts a Tango-shaped shadow over the ruddy sandstone bricks when he turns a corner, and if Ford’s distracted by his strong profile, well, she doesn’t think anyone can blame her, and if her foot catches on a particularly large crack in the floor, sending her toppling forward towards the dark shadows that cascade over the stone floor - 

Oh. _Oh._

Just when Ford’s trying to decide between catching herself and risk breaking a wrist or not catching herself and risk breaking her face (wait that’s not a choice at all she should catch herself, right? Faces trump wrists, right? She feels like Tango would know should she ask him does she have time to ask him?) a strong arm wraps around her waist, suddenly pulling her back up. 

“Watch your step,” Whiskey’s soft voice cuts through the wave of panic that’s surging through her as she falls back against his chest. She clings to him, trying to catch her breath. 

“Little late for that,” She breathes, fingers digging into Whiskey’s forearm. He sets her back on her feet, gently pushing her glasses further up her nose. 

“I’ll try to be more proactive next time,” Whiskey’s lips are turned up in a little smile, eyes catching the light from the lantern as Tango backtracks. He ducks, pressing a kiss to Ford’s forehead, before stepping back. “C’mon, we’re halfway there.” He grins and holds out his hand. 

She takes it, and they continue their search. 

(Turns out the rich white guy was actually dead, and that his wife was haunting herself).

**3\. Both**

There’s a surprising amount of research that goes into being a “meddling kid.” It’s not all secret passageways and tearing off poorly constructed masks (although it’s shocking how poorly constructed many of the masks are; the costume designer in Ford is more horrified by the craftsmanship than the crimes, most of the time). 

Their clients have given them the use of their family library - because, of course, people who live in 9500 square foot mansions have _family libraries_ \- and, as is her custom, Ford had wandered off in search of provisions. Whiskey and Tango actually enjoy the hours of research while Ford simply tolerates it, so it’s for the best. 

She hums as she walks, lyrics slipping out here or there as she passes by stately rooms and heavy doors that line the hall she’s walking down. She’s balancing three paper cups of coffee and a bag of treats, the carpet muffling her footsteps as she walks in beat with the rhythm only she can hear.

“Are you finished with the will?” Tango’s voice echoes down the hallway, spilling from the open door that leads to the library. 

“Yes,” Whiskey answers, voice accompanied by a background harmony of shuffled papers. “She left everything to her second husband. All of it - the house, the fortune, the art collection. Now we just have to figure out if she actually wanted him to have it or if she wanted to leave it to her children. _They_ hired us, after all.” Whiskey sounds serene as ever, methodically working his way through the information, like he always does. Ford hears books thumping shut and pages fluttering before Tango speaks.

“I found some letters she wrote to him and I think she really loved him. Here, listen: ‘My children, as always, are a pack of hyenas just waiting to snap up my fortune. You are the only one who truly loves me, my dear, as I am the only one who truly loves you. You are everything to me, and I am counting down the seconds until I can see your face and hold you close again. Now that I have lived without you I cannot survive doing it again.’” The lush carpet and stacks of books soften Tango’s words, engulfing the library in silence that stretches until Ford reaches the doorway.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” She says as she slips through the open door, holding the coffees aloft. The boys turn, somehow in sync. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says softly, the anchors of his lips rising in a gentle smile. Beside him, Tango beams at her. “We were just thinking about you.” Whiskey says, and Tango nods. They hold out their hands for their coffees but they recieve kisses instead. 

**+1**

As far as late night stake outs go, it’s not the worst (that honor falls to their forty eight hour investigation of a swamp monster that had turned out to be a very large tree) but it’s certainly not the best. It had been warm enough during the day while they’d investigated the orchard (What kind of self-respecting ghost haunts a pear orchard, anyway? Surely an apple orchard has more gravitas, but Ford’s getting beside the point). Now, though, as the temperature drops, Ford’s realizing that they haven’t brought nearly enough layers. 

Whiskey’s up in the tree above them, armed with binoculars and a walkie talkie. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, so he’s probably okay, but on the ground it’s a different story. Tango’s curled up next to her, wrapped up in their only blanket, which Ford figures is fair because he’s wearing a tank top and shorts while she’s at least wearing jeans.

They only have a few hours left. It’ll be fine. They’re fine. The pear orchard ghost is most certainly the owner’s nephew trying to drum up some new business for the season and they’re _fine._

The wind rustles through the leaves as the darkness settles around them. The cool breeze ripples over Ford’s skin, sending a shiver down her spine. She catches a flurry of movement from the corner of her eye but when she turns her head she’s met with the inky black night. Serves her right for investigating an outdoor case during the new moon. A shadow swoops overhead; Ford’s heart jumps out of her chest before she realizes it’s a fruit bat. The logic doesn’t keep her from shaking, though.

Something warm and soft settles over her shoulders. She leans into it, just for a moment, before realizing that if _she’s_ warm, Tango probably isn’t. Sure enough, when she looks up Tango is tucking the blanket over her with sure, steady hands.

“Tango,” She whispers, trying to wiggle out from underneath the blanket. “You’ll freeze!”

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” Tango asks, and she can’t see much of his face but she’d recognize one of his trademark leading questions anywhere. 

“Yes,” Ford says honestly, because there’s no use lying to him. “But so are you. Come on, get under here with me.” She arranges them carefully, making sure her bun doesn’t poke out from the shrubbery they’re hiding behind. Tango follows her lead, letting her set him up with the blanket over his shoulders with his back resting against Whiskey’s tree. She settles in his lap, back pressed against his chest, and when he wraps his arms around her the blanket covers them both. “See?” She says, and Tango’s soft huff of laughter is answer enough. 

The wind blows, the leaves rustle, and Ford can’t imagine doing this with anyone else. Whiskey comes down from the tree when he gets too cold and crowds under the blanket with them. His elbow pokes against her ribs and Tango’s knee is digging into her spine but it’s perfect _._

“Hey,” She whispers, voice so soft it’s almost snatched away by the wind. Behind her, Tango hums in acknowledgement and Whiskey turns to face her. “I love you, and you. Both of you.” Ford says. The words settle between them, diving under the blanket to sneak beneath their skin, burrowing deep into their bones. Tango presses his forehead against her shoulder and Whiskey opens his mouth, about to speak, when a low, garbled moan echos through the trees. 

Whiskey’s up in a flash. Tango grins. Ford grabs her flashlight, and they’re off. They have a mystery to solve, after all. 


End file.
